


Jealousy is a Vicious Motivator

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I just wanted to write these guys in love okay?, John looks great in his new suit, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock is jealous, They really try, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, its like reverse fake relationship, pretend platonic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13527099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: Sherlock and John start a relationship and they couldn't be happier. However, just to be safe, they set some ground rules, one being they want to keep their relationship a secret.  This is put to the test when Mycroft sends them to a fancy party and they have to pretend to be platonic.  Will their resolve last? (Spoiler: the answer is no).





	Jealousy is a Vicious Motivator

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: basically in my head for this fic everything is canon up until series 3 and then Mary betrays them, Moriarty comes back, and Sherlock and John spend a few months dashing around Europe like they should have done the first time round.  
> Also this was only quickly edited so let me know if there are any grammar/spelling mistakes! I hope you enjoy!

They had agreed to take their relationship slow. 

After everything they had been through- kidnappings, Moriarty, Mary, Moriarty _again_ \- they had made the mutual decision that they shouldn’t rush anything.  They had waited almost 6 years for this to happen, a few weeks or months were nothing in comparison.

Of course, this was John and Sherlock.  They could make all the decisions and agreements they wanted, hell they could even plan everything down to the exact hour and day.  Their lives and temperaments however would simply do as they damn well pleased, not minding the good intentions of our earnest pair.  And _they had_ good intentions.  Their intentions were stellar.  Immaculate.  Butter-wouldn’t-melt type of intentions. 

But everyone knows what the road to hell is paved with. 

Their first kiss could be called chaste.  Sweet even.  When they had returned home, both of them finally _home_ , after months of searching and deducing, running and hiding, they had shared a blissful moment of silence.  The room had clearly been cleaned but there was just enough random papers lying about, just enough letters stabbed to the mantelpiece, their chairs tucked closely together, the headphones still lopsided on the bull skull.  It was home.  In that moment, they both sighed in relief. 

The second moment had Sherlock turning to John to make a comment on the state of the flat since they’d been away (“Still not our housekeeper I see”), which was stopped by the look of ease in John’s eyes as he sat purposefully in his chair.  It had been so long since Sherlock seen that look on him, a look of perfect comfort.  

And it was that look that had them arguing about the third moment.  Sherlock still maintains he had no idea what his body was doing, how it had drifted closer until he was stood in front of his best friend.  But that term didn’t seem to fit him anymore.  John was _John_ , an entity that deified all the labels regular people ascribed to social relationships.  In the same moment Sherlock was contemplating his uniqueness, the John in question looked up, smiling softly. 

The fourth moment, Sherlock leaned down and brushed their lips together, trying to say what his words could not express because for some reason it felt imperative John knew exactly that he was _John_ to Sherlock.  He felt John’s lips twitch and there was a split moment of panic before a hand came up to cradle his head and keep their lips pressed together.  When they finally pulled back, neither could contain a small laugh, and John slowly shook his head, brushing their foreheads together as they simply soaked in the moment.  It was the start, their start, and in that crystalline moment both silently vowed that it wasn’t going to be taken away from them for anything. 

They easily identified the main stumbling blocks to their new relationship.  The most pressing one was probably themselves.  So they talked.  Communication wasn’t either one’s forte but, when push came to shove, they could just about manage it.  Just.  It involved a lot of looking at the floor and more blushing than either expected but in the end they agreed on certain things. 

One such thing was to not push the physical side of their relationship too far, too fast. Even though Sherlock was not as innocent as everyone believed him to be, it had still been a while since he had anything resembling a relationship and so John had quietly insisted they wait a while.  It wasn’t like they were on a deadline.  Sherlock was not exactly pleased as his main thoughts were about how to get John into bed in the quickest time possible (he had 8 working theories so far) but he was also slightly pleased he had some leeway. 

Of course life began throwing opportunities at them practically as soon as the agreement was made.  Cases which involved being squished into very small spaces together such as a suspect’s wardrobe, Sherlock spilling chemicals onto himself and having to wear nothing but a sheet for a week, and one very memorable stake-out where John decided to wear jeans that perfectly contoured his arse began an irritating and regular norm.  Sherlock had nearly let the gang leader escape but figured he could not be held accountable for his actions because if he hadn’t snogged John in that moment then how would John know that Sherlock needed to kiss him? 

Something was bound to break.

About two weeks after they had agreed to taking it slow, there was a chase.  In all honesty the Met couldn’t understand how the boys managed to always need to be running after their suspects but so long as they caught them in the end, they would let it slide.  Of course, this time was no different, and they managed to corner him only a few streets away from Baker Street.  After dealing with the necessary questions (“Yes this is the right person”, “No we didn’t steal your badge again”, “I’m so sorry, but you know he pickpockets when he’s bored”), John jokingly suggested a race back.  Really he should have seen his mistake. 

As Sherlock had taken off almost immediately, John was a few steps behind the entire run back.  This gave him the incredibly perfect view of Sherlock’s arse, and this was when he knew he was in trouble.  Almost as soon as they were through the door Sherlock had turned, they had pulled each other in and were kissing passionately.  Sherlock used his taller frame to back John up against the door and if John hadn’t pulled back to state “Bed. Now,” it is likely the two would have been caught having sex in the hallway. 

And so, one decision had already been broken.  No big deal.  After all, no one was perfect, and the pair were big enough to admit they were perhaps less perfect than most.  There was one issue however, that surprised both of them. 

It started with a choice to keep their relationship private.  Super private.  Not even Mrs Hudson had gained the privilege of knowing the change in their relationship (because then Mrs Turner would know, and then _everyone_ would know, even if they didn’t want to).  She had guessed obviously, but neither was dignifying her little comments with a response.

The reason for secrecy was fairly simple: they didn’t want to deal with the pressure of people knowing yet.  As they had seen in several high profile cases, the demands of the press and sometimes even just family on a relationship could cause severe strain on a relationship which they didn’t want to inflict on their fledging romance.  Also, the press had regained interest in both their lives after the ups and downs of the Moriarty case, and the failure (read: betrayal and utter destruction) of John’s marriage.  So, they kept quiet.  No other people, no other pressures, no one asking questions or jokes.  Just the two of them in a wonderful little bubble.  Easy. 

But then Mycroft stepped in. 

Apparently the Committee of something-or-other was holding a Ball or a Banquet or something else exceedingly dull to congratulate or commemorate a thing, and the only part that mattered was that both Sherlock and John had been invited.  Well, less invited and more their presence was mandatory to keep an eye on the proceedings.  All this was enough to make Sherlock nearly cry with boredom but it was only when he found out the event would be happening in Kent, rather than in London, he flat out refused to go. 

“It wasn’t a request Sherlock.”

“I don’t care.  I’m not going.  Now leave.”

Mycroft sighed one of his ‘why do I have to deal with this?’ sighs.  “It’s only for one evening.  I’m sure even you can manage that, and London isn’t simply going to implode without your presence.”

Sherlock had simply looked away, as if the book shelf fascinated him. 

“John, deal with him,” Mycroft gestured with his umbrella as he made to leave. This request had only increased when Mycroft had deduced their relationship change, as if John had more control over Sherlock now they were having sex on a regular basis.  John had been hiding in the kitchen hoping to avoid the conversation entirely.  As Mycroft left, he stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Sherlock.  He hadn’t moved, but John could see in his eyes that he was carefully listening to Mycroft’s exit, making sure he was really gone.  As they heard the front door shut, and Sherlock relaxed minutely, John sauntered up to the chair. 

“I’m not going,” was the reply before John had even made a sound. 

“C’mon,” he said, bumping Sherlock in the shoulder.  “Might be fun.”  There wasn’t really room but John managed to perch himself on the chair arm, and Sherlock automatically turned so his face was pressed into John’s jumper.  “There’ll be music you can criticise and people to make fun of and there might be dancing…”

Sherlock made a muffled noise that sounded a lot like “I’m going to kill him for telling you that.”

“I’ll let you get me a new suit.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.   

It was then John played his ace card.  He leaned in so he was whispering in Sherlock’s ear.  “And maybe if you’re really, _really_ lucky I’ll let you help me out of it when I sneak into your hotel room.”  As Sherlock paused, John knew he had already won.  Storm grey eyes glanced up, and John gave his best innocent look. 

Sherlock huffed.  “Fine.  But you’re telling Mycroft.”

And so, a week later, they found themselves pulling up outside the castle-turned-hotel venue. They’d arrived at noon, as the afternoon event didn’t really begin until 2pm. They had not yet realised their problem. 

Sherlock had been in a sulking mood all morning, which John had anticipated, but it still didn’t make having to haul two suitcases inside any easier.  Luckily the porter ran up to help, which gave John time to glare at Sherlock, who was stood perfectly in the way, right in the middle of the foyer, scowling at his phone.

They still did not realise their problem as they (meaning John) checked into their hotel rooms.  Keeping up the illusion of a simple friendship, they had rooms across the hall from one another.

They didn’t realise their problem as went to go and get ready.  This took an half an hour longer than expected when Sherlock broke into John’s room for a surprise snogging session, and they only realised the time when John’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.  (This turned out to be Mycroft who, although he would prefer not to know, knew this would happen).  

They only realised their problem when they met up in the hallway to make their way downstairs.  Sherlock, as usual, looked effortlessly suave in black, form fitting suit and crisp white shirt.  The only change to his look was he had let his hair run riot a bit more than he liked, as he knew John loved it.  John, however, looked nothing like himself.  A world away from the jumper he had been sporting earlier, his body was wrapped in a grey three-piece, white shirt and, unlike Sherlock, a navy tie.  It was this last item he was still fiddling with as he exited his room.

“You know I think I’ve worked out why you don’t wear these bloody things,” he said, scowling at the offending item.  Sherlock was glad because this gave him time to pick his jaw up from the floor and wrestle back the urge to tear off John’s suit until he was left in nothing _but_ the tie. 

“Let me,” he offered, happy his voice was still even.  It was then John looked up and Sherlock couldn’t help smirk at the appreciative way John scanned his body. 

“Handsome bastard,” John muttered, dropping the tie as Sherlock stepped closer.

“I could say the same thing,” Sherlock replied smoothly, trying to focus on the knot, rather than using it to pull John in closer.  When he finished he tucked the ends into John’s waistcoat and admired his handiwork. 

“Knew I kept you round for something,” John said with a wicked smile.  They both lent in and-

 _Crash_.

They both sprang apart.  Around the corner of the corridor they heard yelling and Sherlock simply said “cleaning trolley” as an explanation.  They both waited, poised, as if a dangerous criminal was just going to waltz round the corner, but nothing happened.

“We better get going then,” John said after a while, realising how strange both of them must look. 

Sherlock shook himself out of his revive. “Fine,” he said, and marched off towards the lifts.  He didn’t know if he was more annoyed at being made to go be sociable, the clumsy cleaning lady, or John for making his head spin.  And then it hit him.

If they were still pretending their relationship was truly platonic, that meant they had to pretend to be _actually_ platonic.  No lustful staring.  No arse grabbing.  No kissing.  Nothing. 

For at least 2 hours (though more likely 3 or, _god forbid_ 4) he was trapped in a room full of people with an irresistible John Watson and absolutely no way of showing to anyone that he was taken. 

There was only one solution.  Complete avoidance.  Because although Sherlock was a master of self control, pushing his body to the absolute limits, it didn’t actually mean he enjoyed it.  Also, unlike what John liked to believe, he was actually aware some limits were not made to be pushed. 

The two floor journey was agony.  Sherlock pressed himself into the corner opposite to John, as if trying to meld with the glass.  John watched him, his frowning for a few seconds, before hesitantly asking, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped back.  This would have been perfect if his voice wasn’t a pitch too high, meaning he only elicited an eyebrow raise.  Luckily John seemed happy to chalk it up to his reluctance to be there in the first place and let it slide. 

As soon as the lift doors opened into the foyer, Sherlock watched a similar revelation descend onto John.  The crowd gradually filtering into the ballroom was immaculate and elegant, a stereotype of beauty and elite.  They had barely walked into the room and already they could feel several pairs of eyes watching, some lingering a longer than a casual gaze. 

“Oh,” John said.

“Yep,” Sherlock replied, his peripheral vision locked onto a pretty brunette already eyeing up John from across the foyer.  _Harlot_.  “We could still turn around.”

“They’ve already seen us.” 

Damn.  “Drink?”

“Immediately.”

They made their way into the ballroom proper.  A bar ran along the left side, with several people already stationed there, a few large circular tables with lilac decorations, all framing a large dance floor which was practically deserted apart from a few brave (and judging by their dancing, drunk) souls clumped in the middle.  The music was being played by the Quartet who were pushed into a corner, and Sherlock admitted they were alright.  He let the music sway him slightly, imagined joining in a waltz, spinning softly, with John in his arms… in front of everyone.  No.  Because that wasn’t platonic and people would be staring and then John would want to stop dancing.

Drink.  Needed.  Now. 

After fighting their way to the bar and subsequently fighting their way out, they went to go sit down.  Each chair had a little place name and Sherlock both hoped he would be sat next to John so he could avoid the tedious conversations that were bound to happen, and hoping John was as far away as possible, so he wasn't inclined to be _carried away_ as Mycroft put it.  It turned out there would be a person sat in between them. 

That person was the brunette he had spotted checking out John earlier.  She introduced herself as “Clarissa.”  Sherlock hated Clarissa and her stupid pretty face and her stupid interesting job as a doctor in an A&E department which John took interest in and asked _questions_.

This meant that for two torturous hours he was sat, angrily pushing food around his plate.  After being as brusque as possible and glaring at everyone they left him alone but unfortunately that just meant he couldn’t help but listen in to John chatting to everyone and generally being _nice_.  So Sherlock did the adult thing.  He started to get drunk. 

This was very easy considering he was sulking, under-fed (apart from dessert, he didn’t mind dessert), and very determined.  He slowly started stealing other people’s drinks.  This was easy because as Sherlock knew already, people were idiots.  His logic was simple and flawless.  If he was drunk John would have to look at him and look after him and he would forget about the stupid A&E doctor and would take him upstairs and everything would be fine _right_? 

However, like Sherlock, John had realised that avoidance was the best possible way to prevent any possible non-platonic behaviour.  Platonic John would have talked to the pleasant, pretty woman who was sat next to them and so he did.  Every time he looked at her he could see Sherlock behind her though and that was distracting, so he ended up doing a weird thing where he would glance up, get distracted, glance back down at his food, feel rude, and so the cycle went round. 

The disaster moment happened after dessert.  As people started moving around the room, the lights were dimmed, and a new round of dancing broke out.  Clarissa moved away and Sherlock relaxed slightly as he noticed John’s eyes kept skittering back to him.  But then John asked if he wanted another drink and Operation Drunk Sherlock was still go so he said yes.  John got up and went to the bar and Sherlock remained sulking slightly at the table and flickering an eye over the party for anything illegal that could turn into a fun case so this party would just _finish_ already.  This meant he did not keep an eye on John.  He should have kept an eye on John. 

John would maintain that it wasn’t her fault.  For all intents and purposes, he was supposed to be a bachelor, and the tailor Sherlock has sent him to had made him a _beautiful_ suit, and he was trying to distract himself from being distracted by Sherlock and basically, it wasn’t the poor woman’s fault.  They had been stood waiting for the barkeeper for quite a while and they exchanged the usual questions about who they were and why they were there and how they knew so-and-so.  Then she laughed.  And then she touched his arm. 

He wasn’t sure how Sherlock managed to cross the room that fast.  It shouldn’t have been humanely possible but a lot of things shouldn’t have been possible about Sherlock Holmes so he didn’t question it.  One moment there was a space and the next there was 6 foot of angry, glowering, towering consulting detective there, looking as if he would happily push the woman out a window. 

They both looked startled at Sherlock’s sudden appearance and John winced slightly at the fact that might look guilty. 

“You must excuse us a moment,” Sherlock said in a tight voice, hand curling around John’s bicep and pulling him away towards the foyer.  John tried to give the woman an apologetic look but it was difficult considering he had apparently lost his privilege of choosing where he was headed and they were walking at pace that meant they could probably outrun a London bus.  In fact Sherlock didn’t slow down until they were in a quiet, shadowy corner of the foyer where they couldn’t be seen. 

“Lock,” John said, digging his heels in to grind them to a halt. 

“John.”  Sherlock was practically quivering with rage but who it was directed at was questionable.

“Sherlock, it’s okay.  I was just talking to her about the party.”

“John,” Sherlock tried to say but his mouth was momentarily not connected to his brain. 

“I was just waiting for the barkeeper I promise.”

“John.”  Better. 

“Yes sweetheart?”

“I don’t want to pretend anymore.”  His voice, which John expected to be filled with anger, was instead so quiet and upset that John couldn’t help but run his hands through Sherlock’s hair and put their foreheads together. 

“Okay,” John said smiling softly. 

Sherlock frowned.  “Just like that?  Thought we made a rule.”

“Some rules are meant to be broken.  And look how well that turned out with our first rule.”

“Okay.  You aren’t allowed to talk to anyone else either.  Ever again.  For the rest of time.”  Sherlock nodded, pleased at his above point.  He had made some great points.  John would have to be his forever now. 

John bit his lip to stop himself laughing.  He ran his hands down so he was rubbing Sherlock’s arms so he could get a better look at his eyes.  “Sherlock Holmes, are you drunk?”

“John Watson, _how_ _dare_ you.  But also yes.  A little.” 

John outright giggled at that.  Sometimes he was shocked by how much he loved this man.  It wasn’t that he could ever forget but most of the time it was kept just the right side of overwhelming.  This was not one of those times. 

“Will you dance with me?” he asked and Sherlock’s features mirrored John’s own: soft eyes, slightly dopey smile. 

“I will always dance with you.” 

They had good intentions.  They really did.  But sometimes good intentions led to bad decisions.  Like trying to keep their relationship a tightly controlled secret instead of simply doing whatever the hell they wanted and letting everyone else deal with it. 

John led Sherlock back to the dance floor, hands intertwined.  There was a small space near the edge of the floor and the music was at a slow waltzing pace.  There wasn’t any space to move into so they simply turned on the spot.  John could feel a few people glancing their way but he only had eyes for Sherlock, who was thinking the exact same thing.  It turned out their bubble was still intact, just people could now see inside, could now see how happy they were. 

Sherlock smirked slightly and playfully said, “You worried people will talk?”

John laughed and Sherlock’s insides practically glowed (both from the laugh and from the alcohol).  “Well it’s like a wise man once told me.  People do little else.”

So Sherlock kissed him, just to give them another thing to talk about. 


End file.
